Rilke's Sonnet to Orpheus 1.5

Errichtet keinen Denkstein. Lasst die Rose

nur jedes Jahr zu seinen Gunsten blühn.

Denn Orpheus ists. Seine Metamorphose

in dem und dem. Wir sollen uns nicht mühn

um andre Namen. Ein für alle Male

ists Orpheus, wenn es singt. Er kommt und geht.

Ists nicht schon viel, wenn er die Rosenschale

um ein paar Tage manchmal übersteht?

O wie er schwinden muss, dass ihrs begrifft!

Und wenn ihm selbst auch bangte, dass er schwände.

Indem sein Wort das Hiersein übertrifft,

ist er schon dort, wohin ihrs nicht begleitet.

Der Leier Gitter zwängt ihm nicht die Hände.

Und er gehorcht, indem er überschreitet.

my translation . . .

mark no grave     let the rose alone

flower for her     every year

orpheus is     her morphing

to & fro    we mustn’t re-

name her     everyone is orpheus

when singing     she comes & goes

isn’t it enough     when she stays

two days more     than the rose

yet she wanes     you know that

& fears     her waning

that her words     disappear the here

conjure the there     where you can’t follow

the strings of the lyre     don’t steer the hands

she yields     by going too far

Sulphur, Mercury, Salt

once the world was open space

now we’re larvae, honeycomb

walls between us, food delivered

death for those who go back

& forth, bound & fattened inside

we might mature, into what?

Cusp

she sends a postcard her scrawl

says she thinks I’ll like it the flipside

more writing not a visual not a pond

to slip into to be reflected by instead

a citation of someone else’s speech

not speaking, no, writing about lying

face down in the dirt fallen? slammed?

headlong will? the juddering blow

the smell of dirt leaves animals mold

dry damp sweet sour slimy prickly

five orifices face down in the dirt

penance? parody? prophecy?

 

Ride

I ride my bicycle down the empty

morning street, DiTullio’s selling his house

another is already contingent

the realtor sign in front of the Irma-flooded

house is now a dumpster titled

nature’s calling, the half-built house

rises to two peaks, a plywood bridge 

between, suppose one’s for he

the other for she, or one’s for lowly beasts

taro fills the ditches, rose of sharon

lavenders a green fan, parked trailers

bear boats, a concrete pig wears

a blue mask, caution tape & orange cones

swag a muddy verge . . . pedal, pedal on

Death Is Out of the Question

I’m the child, Aunt Lil is Aunt Lil

the grocer calls her Miss Jones

two aunts are Miss Joneses but Lil is

the Miss Jones wanted on the telephone

to take down the particulars about

the boy who fell from a tree & broke

two limbs, about grandparents Mr & Mrs

male name surname from Flushing

NY who are visiting their daughter Mrs

male name surname for two weeks

what a pittance Aunt Lil receives

to record these notes on her steno pad

transcribe them on her stiff-armed typewriter

onto off-white newsprint scraps, deliver

the small news to the local paper

she lets me type too, items I invent

for issues that never run — Aunt Lil

stirs the oatmeal & clothespins laundry

decides what we’ll eat for lunch & dinner

manages the funds, pays the bills

Mrs Smith her lifelong friend

gabbing at the kitchen table is common

by comparison — what Aunt Lil says

is firm & smiling & kind, she tends

to diabetic old Ma in her wheelchair

takes her to the toilet, bathes & dresses her

ties her shoes, takes her off to bed

afterward a lightness I never see any other

time of day — Aunt Lil trimly beautiful

never marries, I admire most the look

that comes into her eyes when someone

says something she thinks foolish

or doesn't believe, a blankness adults

ignore, or appear not to notice

a look nothing a child says ever receives